


The Ledore Interview

by leo_minor



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (i swear it's still fun !), Character Study, Gen, Henry-centric, Interviews, Journalism, Mock press article, Post-Miracle Mask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: A few months after the Masked Gentleman's disappearance, in the midst of Monte D'Or's reconstruction, Henry receives a letter from a novice journalist looking for the inside story of what happened. He figures; why not ? It's about time to wrap things up.
Relationships: Randall Ascot & Henry Ledore, Randall Ascot/Henry Ledore
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	The Ledore Interview

**Author's Note:**

> After reading Mark Z. Danielewski's "House of Leaves" I wanted to try and write a story that messed around with form, or shaped like something it's not (the book itself is written like an essay, plot advancement constantly interrupted partly by the editor, partly by the editing itself). An interview was a medium that came to mind. This jumps about a little between purely question-answer bits to actual storytelling, but I wanted it to be a whole made of different pieces ! I hope it's enjoyable, even if it's a little bit on the experimental side.  
> Have a good read-through !

**THE LEDORE INTERVIEW**

The following text is a transcript of the series of meetings I had with Henry Ledore following the miraculous survival of the city of Monte D’Or, which I regrouped under the name above. From here onwards where shortening is required Mr Ledore will be referred to as HL and I, the interviewer, simply as IN.

Contents table :

  1. RECORDING #01 (+ notes)
  2. STREET INTERVIEWS (8 statements)
  3. RECORDING #02
  4. SOURCES & BIBLIOGRAPHY [MISSING]



Date : April 24th, 19XX

_Setting : On the terrace of a small café off Knick Knack Alley. The little impasse is just removed enough from Monte D’Or’s busy streets to allow us a little privacy. Mister Ledore sits opposite me, on the other side of the round marble table offered to us. He’s clutching his hands together on top of the surface. The first thing he did after pulling his seat back was place his flip phone on the table, face up. During the introductory part of our exchange, he eyes it wearily every few minutes._

_The first full sentence he says to me on recording is :_

**[RECORDING #01 STARTS]**

HL : I apologise in advance if our meeting is cut short. I don’t have much time to grant you, I’m afraid.

IN : That’s perfectly fine. I’m grateful for the opportunity to meet you, Mister Ledore. To begin, could you please briefly summarise your main occupation and your role within Monte D’Or ?

HL : Yes, of course. My role and occupation are mostly the same. I act as an investor to the town’s businesses. Over the years I’ve wound up owning some of them, but the revenue is poured right into another project. I’m also –

IN : _(cutting him off)_ I heard that– I’m sorry. Please, go ahead.

HL : No, I had little more to add. _(Here he offers a smile. Even without knowing him personally, you can tell those are rare.)_ You were saying ?

IN : I just wanted to clarify – you are the town’s founder, are you not ?

HL : Yes. Yes, I am.

IN : But not in any way involved in its political life ? I mean to ask if you are a representative.

HL : No. I leave all legal and political matters to the mayor, of course. Although I took on those responsibilities very early in the town’s development, they quickly became too much to manage for me. I also _(he pauses briefly)_ don’t believe it would be my place.

IN : I see.

_At this point, a young waitress approaches the table. He orders a cup of coffee and thanks her profusely. Before departing, she in turn thanks him and politely tells him she’s delighted to see him here again. The location having been chosen by Henry, it’s plausible that he’s a regular here, in this little alleyway where he won’t be recognised, nor disturbed, by the public._

IN : Just one last question related to this, sir. Although you refuse ownership or anything such over Monte D’Or, most of its inhabitants and even the press continue to see it as yours. The Herald describes the city and its reach as such, I quote : ‘Monte D’Or is a product of years of meticulous investment, sweat and tears. It is Ledore’s town, until the end, because without him it would be sand. He alone stands at its heart.’ End quote. How do you feel about this ?

HL : [unintelligible mumble]

_He clears his throat, coughing dryly into a closed fist. There’s something unreadable on his face, written between his frowning eyebrows and the tiny shadow of a wrinkle that appears at the corner of his eyes. Given a moment, he straightens himself out and seems to have found the words he was looking for, or at least wrapped his head around the notion. With a troubled look, he taps at the plastic cover of his phone with two fingers._

HL : I… I’m sorry. I can’t claim– rather, I didn’t do it for myself. My intention was never to build myself a city. And I certainly didn’t do it alone. Without help, and a tremendous amount of good luck, I wouldn’t have gotten very far.

IN : Good luck, you say. Just out of curiosity, could you describe yourself as a lucky person ?

HL : I don’t think so. Good fortune hasn’t always been on my side.

_Note : It’s difficult to tell what he’s referring to in this answer. Very little is known about Mr Ledore’s background before the foundation of Monte D’Or nor the rush to the desert that would eventually spark it. Of course, it’s safe to assume that the reason for this rush, namely the disappearance of Mr Ledore’s close friend, is hiding behind those vague words. To push the issue at this time seems too invasive, although it will eventually be pursued in **RECORDING #02**. _

HL _(cont.)_ : But twice, yes, I have had an unimaginable stroke of luck.

IN : The first being the success of Monte D’Or and the second its recent rescue, I assume. Before we get to that, I’d like to address something that’s sort of relevant to what we’re doing, right now. Conducting an interview, that is. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the amount of media coverage of the town has gone drastically down these past few months. In fact, the number of pieces including appearances on your part have reduced to zero. No one outside of the area has heard anything from you since the end of February. Is there a reason why you’ve shrunk away from the public eye ?

HL : _(glancing away)_ I apologise. That was quite a long question; could you ask me again ?

_He doesn’t look like he’s deliberately refusing to answer. While the question is repeated, he looks awake and attentive, albeit avoiding eye contact._

HL : I see. It hasn’t been a conscious decision on my part. I think that I’ve just been terribly, terribly busy… And besides –

_Henry works hard, harder perhaps than he should. This is no secret to anyone inside or outside of the city. Anyone on this side of England who has bothered to open a newspaper in the last ten or fifteen years has caught a glance of him or his name at least on one occasion. Examining him so closely, a privilege few people are granted, reveals a hundred little details that betray his exhaustion : the rough patches that plague his suit under the elbows or around the wrists, for instance. Everything else about his appearance is obsessively impeccable, but there isn’t much he can do about his face, which looks thin and pale even in the generous afternoon light._

_That being stated, there is one thing that contrasts with our outward impression of him, and that is his eyes. There’s something there that’s entirely different, like his mind is functioning on a different plane to his body. In is, in fact, functioning in another world, where prospects are brighter. They shine. Although exhausted, he has the expression of a man relieved. Therefore, it’s no surprise to hear him add :_

HL : I’ve found what I was looking for.

IN : I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that is. A purpose ? Something tangible, like an object or a person ?

HL : I’m afraid not. I may not have much time for my private life, but I’d like to keep it so nonetheless.

**[PAUSE]**

Henry looks at the interviewer, hunched over their small table scrawling into a spiral notebook. He looks awfully young, but then again, he had an early start himself. The moment’s silence is much appreciated, despite the batteries it’s wasting on the recorder, because although he’s doing a very good job of hiding it, he’s shaking. These things never get easier, not even with endless practice – he will inevitably start to sweat, and splutter his words out, and then the trembling will start. The past eighteen years have been a sort of interminable rush, which he recalls spottily at best (even the diary Angela advised him to keep helps little), but he remembers his first interview alright.

He was nearly eighteen. It was a matter of two or three weeks. The press had not been too keen on the idea of waiting. A little hotel blossoming in the desert is something you have to seize, before it inevitably goes under and spends the next fifty years decaying. They’d asked his legal guardian to sign a fistful of forms which all looked terribly complicated, to the point they made him tear up.

At this time he’d begun to have headaches and nightmares. Occasionally, he’d wake up in the middle of the night and wander to the edge of the ridge. When he sat down to face the wind, if he listened closely, he could almost hear Randall’s voice.

But he digresses.

Mrs Ascot had refused to sign at first. She’d been desperate to protect him. Deprived of her only son she’d torn herself to pieces and rebuilt around the promise she would not lose him, too. God knows what he must have looked like that night, thin and shaking and gasping for breath, and that sight had moved her. But he’d begged and promised he’d be fine and he needed to bring more people here, many more, until they’d searched every corner, and that moved her too. It must have moved her more. She signed the papers.

The interview in itself was terrifying. Pictures were snapped with the desert out of focus, sprawling behind him, and the hotel was examined on every side. That part, he supposes, wasn’t so bad. But if anticipation hadn’t sent him into fits of uncomfortable chills prior to the first question, he certain was shivering when it was asked. And the next. And the one after that, all wrong, all specific and personal and alluding to topics he was unprepared for. Unable to put his mumbles to much use, the journalist had ended up penning him as ‘weak and frail, unfit for the arid conditions that befall the gorge’ which, all in all, wasn’t inaccurate. Five years later the same newspaper had left him a complimentary voice message and requested a statement – he had not bothered to call back.

Mrs Ascot had been upset, but they’d gotten several new calls the following week. She stopped being upset and started reaching out to more papers. His first interview was followed by his second, and his third, and it had never really stopped.

Neither had the shaking.

**[CLICK]**

IN : Sorry for the delay, sir. Onto my next question, if you’re ready to continue.

HL : Of course. I suppose we’ll be getting to the heart of the subject, now.

IN : I suppose you could call it that. The press certainly is. It’s a sensational story if we’ve ever come across one, all these ‘dark miracles’…

HL : It’s been massively reported, as well. I’m not sure I can tell you anything new.

IN : I understand. The story’s been told a hundred times, but I’m after something of a more personal telling. Would you mind telling me about the events surrounding the Masked Gentleman, from your perspective ?

HL : From my perspective, yes ? _(He gives the cobbled street that surrounds us a sweeping glance)_ I think that the first thing that struck me was – well, it was probably fear. While I don’t consider Monte D’Or to fall under my ownership, I do feel great responsibility for its wellbeing. It was created as a beacon, and the idea that the light might go out was… terrifying. Like eighteen years of hard work gone in an instant.

IN : At the beginning of this individual’s appearances, the dark miracles were a great deal more frightening than towards the end, correct ?

HL : Most definitely. He was very open about his intentions from the beginning. He was to destroy the city and would let nothing stand in his way.

IN : _(shuffling papers)_ He began by attempting to make people flee, with the public burnings for instance. I have to be honest; reading the reports, this is the miracle that chilled me most. Of course, the four people survived, according to the police report, but…

HL : We had, at the time, no way of knowing that. We all thought we were watching a public execution. People should have fled after this. Or perhaps we should have evacuated. Thinking back on this, I – _(He looks at his hands. Following his gaze reveals them to be shaking.)_ I could have put many tourists in a great deal of danger. But I was desperate. The city needed to stay alive.

IN : Speaking of which, I have to ask. You can choose not to answer if you consider the question out of line, but it’s all quite a lot to swallow, that this so-called miracle maker faked a pyrotechnical act. The other performances were all too far-fetched to be real, but this one, it strikes me as different from the others. I don’t suppose the police could have smothered this business, passed it off as just another magic trick, as to avoid panic over a murder ? To keep the city alive, as you said.

_Mister Ledore is not pleased with the question. His eyes narrow and stare my way with phenomenal force. It’s easy to understand how he achieved so much, with those eyes on me. It is, however, supremely uncomfortable._

IN : As I said, you’re not obligated to a–

HL : No. I understand why you ask, although I don’t like the implications behind the question very much. Let me make something very clear : the police in Monte D’Or may not have much experience, but they are not corrupt. We smothered nothing. If I am to protect Monte D’Or with my life, so be it, but never with that of someone else. This miracle, like all the others, was a cleverly organised trick.

IN : It was taken apart with the help of the Professor Hershel Layton when he joined the investigation, correct ?

HL : Yes. I fear without the Professor’s help things could have gotten a great deal uglier towards the end. _(He glances my way again)_ You’re very well informed.

IN : I’ve done my reading. But I’ve been familiar with him and his work for some years. I suppose I could call him an acquaintance.

HL : I see. You’ve met the Professor, then ?

IN : Just once. A long time ago. _(Pause)_ I doubt he remembers; he’s a busy man.

HL : He gets around. He’s a man of phenomenal intelligence. His will to get to the bottom of this is what saved us. I was unfortunately slow to come to that conclusion.

IN : What do you mean ?

HL : _(a sigh, and a brand new frown)_ I have known the Professor for over twenty years. We were on bad terms for eighteen of those. There was an incident, an accident that tore our friend group apart. We were not all that close before it occurred; afterwards, he left our village and became a stranger to me. We were both suffering immensely. I… regret the way I spoke to him, back then.

IN : This accident – are you referring to the disappearance of your friend ?

HL : Yes.

_He stops there. It’s clear he’ll say no more on the matter, at least not today._

IN : Actually, I did some digging around, and found out that you were one of the Professor’s suspects, until late into the investigation. Is this true ? It surely wouldn’t have helped you welcome him back with open arms.

HL : It’s true, and in hindsight I can hardly blame him. The Masked Gentleman was attracting hundreds of tourists with every new performance he put on, no matter how fearsome. I was profiting most from this. Financially, that is; it was a month of sleepless nights. And, of course, once his motives were revealed, it became obvious he was doing all he could to have the whole thing pinned on me. He nearly succeeded.

IN : I see you’ve brought up his motives. This sort of baffles me, actually; I can normally figure most things out, but nowhere I’ve looked have I found the smaller tidbit of information relating to the resolution of the Masked Gentleman Investigation. I’ve got the police file, even the very unoriginal codename they gave the whole thing –

HL : _(smiling)_ Ah, yes. Operation Mystery.

IN : Precisely ! Everything is in there, including some insights from certain Scotland Yard officers, but it feels like entire pages are missing. Past the sandstorm there’s nothing. Still, the Masked Gentleman has gone, hasn’t he ? If his motives were laid bare, it’s because he was unmasked.

HL : He certainly has disappeared, yes. We’re all thankful for that.

IN : According to what’s not been removed from the file, Mister Ledore, you were there. You were inside the Reunion Inn with the Professor and the Masked Gentleman, right before the sand started flooding in. Do you know who he is ?

_Henry’s hands have stopped shaking. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, sitting back in his chair to take his first sip of coffee. He’s impossible to read, more so than ever now, face carefully and totally blank. From this moment onwards I know I won’t get anything from him on this subject._

HL : _(clatter – the coffee cup returning to the table)_ If I may answer one of your earlier questions, his motives were explained thanks to the Professor’s deductions, and linked not to his unmasking, but to that of a third party. The Masked Gentleman’s plans weren’t his own; he was misled. I don’t think his reasons were important, because they were planted.

IN : I suppose you’re referring to the man known to the police as [REDACTED].

_Note : The name of the individual was censored by an associated act of Scotland Yard and the Monte D’Or police force, in an effort not to hinder the investigation. According to the Yard, it’s been going on for a little over a year. According to the information a little digging yielded, it’s getting nowhere. He always gets away._

IN : What you’re telling me here is that the Masked Gentleman’s convictions weren’t his own.

HL : That’s not what I’m saying. No, there can be no doubt about the fact he believed what he was telling the crowds, and deeply. However, his beliefs were based on a string of lies, and he couldn’t refute them based on what he could see, so what choice did he had but to trust [REDACTED] ? He was fed just the right inventions to make him angry, and vengeful, terribly hurt. It doesn’t excuse the threat he posed to the life of Monte D’Or’s civilians, but it helped me understand that I wasn’t the only one tossing and turning and imagining the worst.

IN : You’re being kind with an individual you called a madman several times, and publicly. Are you backtracking on these claims ?

HL : _(smiling again, difficult to interpret)_ I’m revising them a little.

IN : You’re sure you don’t know who he is ?

HL : Positive.

IN : You don’t know if any arrests have been made, either ?

HL : Unfortunately, no.

IN : You couldn’t guess where he is now ?

HL : I’m afraid I have no idea.

IN : _(mumbling)_ This is such bollocks.

_Note : Apologies for the breach of professionalism. For the sake of completion, this line was kept in the transcript._

HL : I understand your frustration, but there’s really nothing I can tell you about him. Who knows if he survived the flood ? We all lost track of each other very quickly when the sand started coming in. It would be quite the miracle if there were no victims at all.

IN : So he’s legally dead.

HL : Within the vicinity of Monte D’Or, yes.

IN : Alright. I see.

HL : _(all at once)_ Besides, what good would it do ?

IN : I’m sorry ?

HL : What good would it do, to find him ? Certainly, the press could get their pictures, and their bold-print titles, and everyone in the country would know his name, were it disclosed. Sensational writing would ensure. What good would it do to put him in such a position, when these events have stopped definitively ? There’s no need to hunt down a good man who has been led astray.

IN : I see your point…

HL : I would not let that stand.

IN : _(grinning back)_ I understand.

_There’s a sudden vibration that shakes the tabletop. Mister Ledore’s phone is ringing. He picks it up and flips it open._

HL : I’m sorry, I really must take this. Just a moment.

**[PAUSE]**

Henry presses the accept button (it’s a tiny drawing of a speaker, coloured green and flashing) and steps away from the table, a little further into the alleyway. Down there his voice will echo less. The recording is still running, and even from a distance he can make out his interviewer craning his neck, straining his ears. The sight almost makes him smile; he’s seen it all before, really.

“Hello ?” he says into the phone, which isn’t taking much of a risk.

“Right back at you !” replies a voice he’d recognise anywhere. “It so happens to be twelve thirty, and Mordy told me to call you if you weren’t back by then. Bail you out. So, the house is on fire, the cat’s bought it and Angela has finally had enough of the awful living room carpet and tossed it out. Is that enough emergencies ? I could come up with another few !”

“I don’t doubt it,” Henry laughs. “How about just one last one ?”

“I’ve also cracked my skull on the side of our dresser !” comes the cheerful proposition.

“We can’t have that.”

“Certainly not ! I’ve already cracked it once !”

“Injuries aside, thank you for calling, dear.” He turns and gives their table a passing glance; the young journalist is scribbling desperately with pen on paper again. “All is going well, though. That certainly doesn’t happen very often.”

“Is that so ?”

“Oh, yes. He has a lot of questions about you.”

“Well, I was quite the sensation.” His tone has descended into the bitter. Henry can almost hear him frowning. “Good thing the Masked Gentleman is gone for good.”

“That’s what I’m making abundantly clear. As well as the fact that as soon as his reasons were made clear, I forgave him on the spot.”

There’s a crackle on the other end of the line.

“Please don’t frown so, Randall. I can tell from here.”

“…I’m not frowning,” he says, sounding like he’s starting to smile. Henry allows himself a satisfied sigh that makes the man down the line burst out laughing. It’s merry, and delightful, and he’s so very lucky to hear it again after so long that he stays stunned for a moment, looking at the cobblestones beneath his feet, listening. After a while, when the laughter has died down and the line turns silent, and all that’s left of their presence is their breathing, he mumbles :

“Now, that sounds better.”

**[CLICK]**

_Mister Ledore spends a good five minutes on the phone. The distance that he put between the recording device and his person made most of his conversation indecipherable. However, even from a little way away, it’s obvious from his expression that this is no business call. After a few hushed words he ends the call, and flips his phone closed. He spends a few more seconds staring at it lying in his hand before returning to the table._

HL : I’m afraid that’s all the time I can give you today. Please accept my apologies – I’m being called home urgently.

IN : That’s quite alright, sir. I’ve got plenty of material. Nothing serious, I hope ?

HL : I hope not myself.

IN : Would you consent to a second meeting ? There are some things I’d like to pursue. A few photographs I’d like to bring in.

HL : _(a pause)_ Well, I don’t see why not. I can’t give you an exact date, but –

IN : Oh, that’s fine ! Thank you very much. Look, I’ll just give you my phone number. Give me a call or leave a message anytime.

_The sound of a piece of paper being torn. It swaps hands._

HL : I’ll be sure to do that. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Mr Dove.

IN : Privilege is mine.

**[RECORDING #01 ENDS]**

Date : April 24th, 19XX – End of interview notes by C. Dove

Questions and answers went remarkably well. H. Ledore is particularly laid-back for a man of such importance. The only trouble encountered is the total lack of response I received on the Masked Gentleman issue. I have a feeling he’s stonewalling. He definitely knows his name and what happened to him. The remaining question is : why is he hiding it ? And why is the police corroborating with his claims ? (NOTE : unless it affects him personally ?) Is there someone he’s trying to protect ?

Next recording will focus on his past and the few newspaper clippings from between 15-18 years ago. It’s important I ask about [childhood friend – fill in name later]. And the toy. Ask about the toy.

Got to wondering why HL. agreed to the interview in the first place. First one in two/three months. Is he planning on wrapping things up ? Tie all ends together ?

If I can dig a little deeper and figure his motives out this might be my **first big hit!!!**

Date(s) : April 26th through to May 3rd, 19XX

Series of five-minute street interviews conducted anywhere between Fortune St. and the Monte D’Or Hippodrome, following the same common question : What impression has Henry Ledore made on you ?

**Drake Jones. Owner of the Scorpion Casino.**

Setting : His private office, inside the building. There are a few camera screens on the wall that he completely ignores.

Drake : We wouldn’t be sitting here in these cushy chairs without him, my friend. He’s an example of discipline. Imagine my shock when I made my way over to the renowned city in the desert and found the founder was barely my age, looking grim and straight. Well, it certainly gave me a jump start : I put this place together soon after. He’s impressive. I’d love to know what drives him.

**Pirouette. Circus performer.**

Setting : Greenery surrounding the marquee. Took me for a walk down Celebration Boulevard.

Pirouette : I’m not really the right person to ask ! My troupe has barely been here six months, ‘n none of us have ever met him or run into him. But if you want my personal opinion, I’m not fond of any businessman sitting on that much wealth. Then again, I don’t know the guy. Maybe he’s a saint ! The arts would sure do with a patron !

**Tanya & Bonnie L. Seamstress and her young daughter.**

Setting : Gates of Tingly Town.

Tanya : Who ?

Bonnie : Mammy, my tooth’s loose !

**Esther Grace. Retired.**

Setting : A short walk away from the Ledore Mansion gates.

Esther : He’s a marvellous boy. I’ve known him for years, you know, since he was a tiny boy, no taller than this. _(She holds her hand about forty inches above the ground)_ No one’s really bothered to ask nice things about him before; the city is very competitive, you know ? Oh, he was marvellous, yes. Very quiet. Always willing to break his back for others’ convenience. The last few years we’ve seen less of him about. He’s starting to return to the streets now, and he always looks mighty happy.

**Frankie T. Self-proclaimed roamer.**

Setting : Outside the costume boutique. Sitting on a stone bench.

Frankie : Can’t appreciate a good woman if she’s standing right by his side. Which is where his wife’s been for years ! Don’t know if you’ll print rumours, or what, but word on the street is they’re getting a divorce. Tell you what, it’s incredible it took them so long. The missus deserves someone who’ll treat her good. Uh, will you keep my name in ?

**Murphy Thompson**

Setting : Gallery Plaza. Sitting on the marble steps.

Murphy : [REMOVED]

_Note : the above statement was cut in its entirety to prevent leakage of potentially confidential information relating to the respective fortunes and affairs of Mr. Dalston and Ledore._

**Officer H. Policeman**

Setting : Down Knick-Knack Alley. A group of policemen are making their way through the crowd.

Officer : Sorry, we’re in a bit of a rush. It’s not a big emergency, or anything, just a training exercise. The Masked Gentleman investigation revealed that we might do with a little more practice, or so says Inspector Sheffield. Mister Ledore agreed to finance the whole course. He’s a good guy, just busy most of the time.

**Unnamed. Gardener (?)**

Setting : In front of the Ledore estate. Interlocutor declines giving his name but agrees to the brief description that follows : ginger, mid-thirties, wearing thick-framed glasses. During the course of our exchange, he unlocks the gates and steps behind them. I am not invited in.

Statement : Henry ? I can tell you about him, yeah ! He’s special. There’s no other way to put it ! You just won’t find another like him. _(Pause)_ I don’t think I know a better person. And don’t let his looks fool you; he’s strong, as well ! More than he– more than he lets on. I’m not – what, me ? I’ve got the keys, I’m not breaking in ! _(A laugh)_ Oh, no need to pay me any heed. I’m just the gardener !

Date : May 11th, 19XX

_Setting : Living room of the Ledore Mansion. I’m offered a cup of tea, served personally by the house owner himself. The room is lavishly decorated with silk curtains and paintings hanging from the walls. Mister Ledore looks much calmer here, in the comfort of his own home, and brings a plateful of biscuits along with the tea. He offers me a seat on the sofa and takes the nearby armchair. There is no phone in sight this time. The gentle chatter of the Monte D’Or streets has been replaced by the clatters and clangs coming from the rest of the building. Once we are both settled in, I take out my folder and recording device._

**[RECORDING #02 STARTS]**

IN : Thank you for allowing me into your home, sir. May I ask why you’ve chosen this location this time ?

HL : I have a feeling some of the things you wish to show me today are personal. As such, I’d rather we discuss them behind closed doors.

IN : The photographs ?

HL : And everything that surrounds them. _(He smiles)_ I’m sure you’re going to want to dig a little deeper.

IN : I can’t really deny that ! The reason I requested a second meeting was to talk about the birth of Monte D’Or and its circumstances. There’s nothing about it out there at all. What little information is available can only be found in old newspaper articles dating eighteen years back, and, well, they’re not all that objective.

HL : I remember them well. At the time I, ah, lacked the charm they were looking for to build up their story.

IN : You were barely seventeen, correct ?

HL : When journalists began to notice the hotel – that was the Reunion Inn, of course, in its first form – I was closer to eighteen. Not that it changed all that much. Becoming a legal adult didn’t give me stronger legs to stand on or any new answers to give. Certainly, it gave me legal ownership of the hotel, and slowly it started to grow, but I have to make clear that I had no idea what I was doing.

IN : Working blind, in other words.

HL : Completely. _(He leans forward and drops a sugar cube into his teacup)_ This city has earned its name – it was a miracle that it became anything of note.

IN : Still, various people have praised you for your hard work and determination. People didn’t stumble upon the Reunion Inn; they were summoned, weren’t they ? I found an old advertisement stamped 19XX offering a handsome reward for the examination of the area.

HL : I may have been utterly distraught, but I was educated enough to know simple economic principles. People flock towards job offers, and in turn create activity. The hotel stopped being a simple place for them to rest and started becoming a business.

IN : These job offers you mention. They all required the same thing – finding a missing person. It’s common lore on the Monte D’Or streets that the city was built in an effort to find someone dear to you, but it’s no legend. Archives confirm it. It’s the disappearance of a close friend of yours that led you to throw yourself into this whole business, correct ?

HL : It was. I’d never left my village before and never would have, had he not suffered an unfortunate accident. I encouraged him to go somewhere no one our age should have gone alone; I felt it was my fault entirely, and therefore my responsibility to find him no matter the cost. I also – I also refused to believe he was gone.

IN : I see. The rush to find him in exchange for a hearty sum sparked the success that would soon become a metropole. There’s just a curious little detail that I noticed while looking through the archives. See, it’s common for the name of a missing person to be printed in large letters anywhere possible, and shared all around in hopes that they may be identified and brought home. But in your friend’s case, it’s impossible to find on any poster nor newspaper.

HL : It was important to his family to preserve a certain secrecy.

_Mister Ledore reaches for his teacup. This move is an attempt to distract me from the look of distaste on his face. He takes a small sip and places it back._

HL _(cont.)_ : Photographs were transmitted directly to the people we hired. For me it was a matter of life or death; for them, despite their grief, honour remained more important. If their son had died in such an unseemly way…

IN : You don’t hold this family in very high esteem. Did you know them prior to your friend’s disappearance ?

HL : Know them ? _(A smile.)_ I lived with them. They were my first employers.

IN : I– I see.

HL : They were a rich family of high reputation. The social pressure in the household always led it to be close to exploding. I have no doubt in the fact they loved their son – one of them, at least. However, they were incapable of expressing it in a healthy way. They never saw him for whom he was, but who he could be, with the help of a harsher upbringing. We only had each other. But this– this isn’t about them, nor us back then. I’m sorry.

IN : No need to apologise – quite the contrary. This helps me understand why you were so desperate to find him, despite his supposed death. I’d like you to tell me a little more about him. His name, perhaps ?

HL : I- I would rather not.

IN : Not even after eighteen years ?

HL : I’m sorry.

IN : It’s quite alright. Especially since I already know it.

_There’s a pause in our exchange. He looks steadily my way, expression carefully controlled. He has, in fact, frozen in place, and not so much as blinked. The only sign that he’s still with me is a slowly forming frown._

_Note : despite his initial surprise, H. Ledore has agreed to the printing of the name._

HL : I don’t see how you could possibly have found it. We even looked through the memoirs–

IN : It wasn’t easy, I’ll admit that much. The memoirs, of course, didn’t contain his name either, since most of the search party didn’t know it at the beginning. _(A page is turned.)_ In most diaries, he’s referred to as ‘the boy’ and occasionally ‘the kid.’ I ended up dropping that trail. But there was another – you’ve confirmed yourself, several times, that you weren’t yet a legal adult when the money started coming in. You must have received help from a legal guardian.

HL : I did.

IN : And that legal guardian was to remain anonymous.

HL : _(after a sigh)_ That’s the way it was intended, yes.

IN : I thought it was a dead trail as well until I found the mention of an interview in one of the memoirs. A newspaper was named. I dug into the archives and found said article, telling the brief story of the hotel in the desert, built by a teenager. It’s the only piece of press in which the name Ascot appears. She organised the interview. And, as you said, this family aren’t nobodies.

HL : That’s some impressive work.

IN : Thank you. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not trying to goad you. I just want to find out why you’re still trying to keep Randall Ascot’s name a secret from the public close to twenty years after his disappearance. What’s the point ? I’ve checked everywhere I could. He hasn’t been found, nor confirmed dead; his name hasn’t been registered anywhere in the United Kingdom since then.

HL : All I can say is that I’m glad I chose to have this conversation in private.

_Surprisingly, he follows this statement by putting his head in his hands. It’s not something that would be expected from someone so put together. After a moment in his position, he removes his hands and sits up straight. I open my folder and take out the PICTURE 1._

IN : Let’s move on to something else. I’d like you to have a look at this photograph.

_Description : PICTURE 1 is a photograph in black and white cut out of a small newspaper article. It shows a formally identified Henry Ledore, aged an estimate nineteen years old. He’s wearing a shirt coupled with suspenders and a pair of dirtied trousers, with a rip at the knee. There’s a smudge of dirt on his left cheek, right under his eye. He’s holding what looks like a small toy shaped like a robot. The background is out of focus and vastly empty, suggesting a desert landscape._

HL : _(smiling faintly)_ That looks old, but it feels like yesterday.

IN : Could you tell me about the circumstances behind this shot ?

HL : It was a miserable day. You can’t tell from the colours, but it was taken at night. I’d walked practically all day, and gone a fair distance down into the gorge. We had received word that a piece of clothing had been found, just a rip, caught between two jagged edges of the cliffside, and I’d run half the way there. It was about two or three hours on foot from the Reunion Inn, that was being rebuilt at this point. Things were steady.

IN : Did you find anything ?

HL : No. _(A long pause.)_ It was nearly crushing. This was our very first find, our first sign of hope. I was ecstatic. I hoped to find him alive, severely wounded but still breathing; his family was not so optimistic. I made my way over by myself, and when I reached the gorge, the discovery had already been taken back. The piece of fabric belonged to one of the men who’d searched the gorge a few days earlier. Another false alarm.

IN : So you returned to the hotel.

HL : In time. I needed to process the situation. It was difficult to dismiss such promising news so quickly, especially when we’d received so little. Nothing, in fact. We’d get nothing else afterwards, either – this accidental mistake was all we ever found. I refused to walk back home disappointed, and insisted I examine the area myself for another clue, something that might have been left behind.

IN : You mean that you searched through the gorge yourself…?

HL : I knew the entire area quite well by then. I actually insisted on going part of the way without any equipment, which now seems like complete madness, but at the time, I felt confident. In fact, I felt like nothing bad could happen. My desperation to find another sliver of hope overrode everything else. Back then I tended to forget, often, that my life wasn’t limited to my task. I still had a body to care for. I wasn’t all that good at it, as you might have noticed.

_He taps the spot on the photograph showing the rip in the knee of his trousers. The picture is fuzzy, but it’s possible to make out a cut under the clothing._

HL _(cont.)_ : That was a deeper cut than it seems. It took me much longer to walk home than it did to reach the gorge, and by the time I could make out the hotel in the distance, night had fallen. I had no news, nor good nor bad. We had gotten used to the lack of results, but that day, it struck me harder than ever.

IN : If you didn’t find anything, where did the robot come from ?

HL : The robot. _(The tip of his finger glosses over it on the photograph.)_ I took it along with me when we first got word about the fabric.

IN : May I ask why ? It doesn’t seem like an appropriate place to take a toy.

HL : I understand how it looks. It was well suited for a dramatic photograph. It might even have been a prop handed to me. But that robot is more than just a toy. Its sentimental value is enormous. I would go as far as to say that it’s… perhaps my most prized possession.

IN : That explains why it shows up in a number of other pictures of you, then.

_I take out PICTURES 2, 3 and 4 and set them on the table._

_Description : PICTURE 2 is another newspaper cut-out, including the text of the article headline : ‘Monte D’Or on the rise.’ The photograph is in colour and bigger in size. The foreground is a mass of upturned bricks, which are being laid down into a road. Behind the construction work, Mr Ledore is standing, seemingly giving instructions to a worker. He’s wearing a slightly oversized blue suit. He looks to be in his early twenties. A toy robot’s head sticks out partly from his jacket pocket._

_PICTURE 3 is a developed and printed colour photograph, on glossy paper. A date has been scribbled on the back, setting Mr Ledore’s age at twenty-eight at the time of the shot. The picture commemorates the sixth anniversary of the Monte D’Or town hall. Several ribbons are embossed with the event and date celebrated. He is shown smiling, standing beside the previously elected mayor. This time the robot is not in Mr Ledore’s possession, but in the hands of a member of the audience, identified as Mr Ledore’s wife of eighteen years, Angela (maiden name unknown)._

_PICTURE 4 was taken from a recent magazine, issue 543, released a year and a half ago. The article goes into detail about Monte D’Or’s financial organisation, and features a still of Mr Ledore’s office. It is a room in a state of disarray, with files out of place, pots and other pieces of archaeological value placed at each corner, and an impressive wall display covered in notes written in code. On his desk sit a framed photograph (obscured by the camera’s harsh flash and therefore bright white) and the same robot, pristine._

IN _(cont.)_ : Do you still have it ?

HL : I’d never separate from it. _(Pause.)_ I believe it’s still in my office, as show in this last picture here. I suppose it helped me focus when hopes were low.

IN : Where does it come from ? Is there a reason for its deep value ?

HL : _(After a moment’s thought.)_ It was a gift. A very old one.

IN : How old, exactly ?

HL : About thirty years old.

IN : Judging by the context of the first shot, I assume this was a gift from Randall Ascot himself.

HL : It was. I don’t think he knew the significance it would have in my eyes. It didn’t matter why he gave it to me, really. The gesture is what counted. Giving. It’s the first toy I was able to call my own. I was five years old.

IN : You mentioned earlier the Ascots were your first employers. Could you clarify ? You were already living with them at such a young age ?

HL : I was the son of a maid. There wasn’t much for me to do, other than turn to serving in turn. As soon as I was old enough to understand a command I was put to use. This might have been a horrible life – I know my mother suffered, though I hardly saw much of her or knew her at all – but my young age limited the tasks I could be given, and I ended up at the service of the household’s youngest. Master Randall was never much of a social elitist. All he ever asked was for a playmate, and I, having had none before, was happy to oblige. It was like growing up with a friend.

IN : I see. I– This is the first I’ve heard about your background. If I may ask, if you were, ah, ‘at his service’ as you said, why weren’t you accompanying him, the day of the accident ?

HL : _(Looking visibly grim.)_ If there’s one tragedy in a servant’s life, it’s that being skilled at what you do will inevitably make your life much worse. I was good, and showed promise, I suppose. Lord Ascot himself decided that my service was wasted on his son. He requested I become his personal butler. This was a man who had fed and housed me since my birth; there was no room for refusal. I had to leave school and stop going on adventures with my friends, until eventually, they stopped asking me to come to spare me the embarrassment of having to refuse. I was only sixteen.

IN : That’s a sad tale indeed.

HL : I suppose so. It all feels very distant now. That’s the thing about memory; you tend to keep the good ones and bury the worst. But even when things were unpleasant, and my friend was gone somewhere I couldn’t follow, I still had the robot. After he vanished, it served the same purpose. It reminded me of the good times, and the bond between us, and most importantly of him.

**[PAUSE]**

Henry is starting to get the feeling that he’s said too much. It’s the sort of creeping, uncomfortable itch that starts at the nape of your neck and inches its way up until you’re sweating and blinking more often than necessary. This is what’s happening to him now, and there isn’t all that much he can do about it, other than run his fingers through his hair, which is already starting to dampen.

The young journalist is doing something that he’s come to recognise as a very bad sign : he’s looking through his notes. This usually either means that he’s been inconsistent (impossible – he’s been nothing but plainly honest, if a little elusive), or they’ve put two and two together. In this case he desperately hopes he’s wrong.

“Sorry, sir,” the young man says, leafing his way through his notebook. “Just a moment.”

“It’s alright,” he replies. That’s not as plainly honest as the rest of what he’s said.

His hands are starting to shake again. Old habits die hard and betray easily. He reaches for his teacup to occupy them, and regrets the move as soon as the drink touches his lips. It’s gone completely cold. He hoists himself onto his feet and seizes the teapot instead. If there’s one thing he has learned to do over years of meetings, it’s to sense when there’s an opportunity to make an escape.

“Let me get this back to the kitchen. I’ll be back shortly.”

The journalist looks up, blinking. “Oh, um, yes of course. I’ll wait right here.”

Henry doesn’t doubt he will. The young man dives back into his notes without a moment’s pause, chewing on the end of his pen. Henry takes the opportunity to make a much-needed disappearance and goes straight to the kitchen, where he catches himself on the work surfaces and nearly collapses into a chair. His legs are shaking too; there’s no solidarity under stress. His forehead collides with the kitchen table and remains pressed against it. Hey, the cool sensation isn’t all that bad.

In the opposite chair, waiting, sits Randall.

For a few seconds they share the table in silence. There’s a clatter and a small scrape, which turn out to be the man pushing to the side the bowl of porridge he’d been working his way through. When he’s finally got Henry’s attention – and more importantly his eyes on him – he gives the kitchen door a furtive glance.

 _“Can he hear us ?”_ he mouths, nodding his head towards the corridor.

Henry looks at him with amused eyes. “Come again ?”

“I said, can he hear us ?” Randall repeats, in a greatly exaggerated whisper.

“I doubt he can.” The smile is coming off his face, and he makes little effort to keep it on. With Randall in the room it’s hard to stay troubled for very long, but this time, his troubles are rather pressing. “Not that it would change very much... I think that accepting this second interview was a mistake.”

His head finds its way back against the table. Eyes shut, he tries to search the newfound darkness for some sort of solution, but it isn’t telling. What a pain. His eyelashes tremble gently with the strain. All he needs is to come up with something, ready himself for the potential worst, consider what the options might be. If the journalist has connected all the dots and intends to release his discovery to the public, he’s in mighty trouble. To think that it would all seem so obvious, when viewed so closely ! He should have been more careful, more reserved, or shouldn’t have said anything at all. He’s endangered what took eighteen years to finally find, and –

And there are hands on his shoulders. Familiar hands. Warm hands, that are digging into his suit and rubbing circles into his aching muscles, although he doesn’t have much (and certainly not enough, as he’s often reminded). He hears Randall sigh behind him, but the motions don’t stop.

“So it’s not going very well,” he shrugs, “That’s alright ! It’s not like he’s left, is it ? There’s still time to put things straight.”

With a slow pull he eases him up into a more comfortable position. Henry feels his back hit the chair. Straightened up, eyelids warmed by the kitchen light, he’s forced to open his eyes and face the world again. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits softly. “I think that I’ve said too much and given too much away. I wasn’t up to the task.”

“Henry, don’t be ridiculous !”

“He’s most likely guessed why I’m refusing to give away the Masked Gentleman’s identity. I’ve made a grave mistake with my way of going about this. The very thing I was trying to avoid when I agreed to the interview is going to happen.” His voice nearly breaks – years of seasoned public speaking save him, but barely. He shuts his mouth and leaves it so, jaw clamped tight enough to cause a low ache. “I can’t– I can’t let them take you away. I’ll blame myself until I die.”

“Listen here,” Randall says. His tone is so firm that Henry finds himself leaning his head back to check that he hasn’t upset him, but even upside down, there’s nothing on the man’s face other than the boundless determination that defines him. “Hit the brakes on that train of thought for me. Would you ?”

Henry blinks, faintly aware that his eyes are stinging. “I –“

“I know that you’re doing all this for me. You’re trying to protect me again. I know, and I’m grateful, Hen, but don’t you think you’ve done enough ?” Randall smiles above him. The sight is enough to calm Henry’s heartbeat, which slowly but surely starts to settle. “My mistakes are my own to clean up. If something happens when the interview’s published, well, I’ll deal with it then !”

“But how…? If you’re arrested –“

“Good luck locking me up ! I’ve been legally dead for the past seven years. Actually, if I ever need to apply for a passport, I’ll be in quite a bit of trouble !”

“I suppose…” Henry leans his way. “I suppose that it would be difficult for them to find you.”

“The worst that could happen is my name gets dragged around for a while. I can deal with that. It’s the least I can do, in fact. I doubt they’ll be writing anything that’s fundamentally untrue…” If there’s a shadow of guilt on Randall’s face, he swallows it back instantly. “A bit of bad press has never killed a man, has it ?”

Henry gives him a worried look. “But it has… several times.”

“Figuratively, Hen. I won’t let it take me down. It’s my fault you’re having to cover anything up in the first place ! I absolutely refuse to watch you _worry_ about it, too !”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs softly, and feels his eyes shut again. His face contorts with a deeper frown yet. “I’ve managed worse things over the years. I’ve had– I’ve had worse interviews. This time it’s different. I’m just…”

He cracks an eye open. The sudden light makes his head throb, but when it clears and he makes out Randall standing above him, wide-eyed, inquisitive and so very real, he feels his throat tighten.

“…terribly scared.”

And that’s that. He squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, forcing himself to focus on the sound of his index, picking at the nail of his thumb. The tap, tap, tap grounds him just enough. There’s a brief shuffle behind him, and a scratch and scrape beneath; his chair knocked forward a few inches. A click. Randall crouches down and, very carefully, puts a hand on top of Henry’s. The tapping stops. There’s a sense of safety in the touch that guides his hands apart. He clutches Randall’s fingers weakly.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Randall tells him. He’s perched his chin up on the edge of Henry’s knee. “I know you won’t hear it but –“

“You’re going to keep saying it,” Henry finishes.

“I’m gonna keep saying it. And I don’t want to add to the list of the things I’m sorry about anymore, Hen. No matter what happens after this interview – if _anything_ happens ! – it won’t change a thing. I’m not going anywhere.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “I’d promise, but that didn’t go down very well last time…”

Henry feels the ghost of a smile coming on. “Perhaps a double promise, this time.”

“That works,” Randall grins. “Anything to ease your mind. I’m not leaving you a second time. I swear. Twice.”

The look that Henry gives him is supposed to be meaningful. It’s supposed to be brimming with trust, because he trusts him unconditionally still, and brimming with love, because he loves him dearly (even though he has yet to tell him, but he will – and even so, Randall knows). However, it mustn’t make much of an impression, because Randall starts shaking with quiet laughter instead.

“You don’t look very reassured,” he says. “We can get me a house arrest bracelet if it helps. It’ll go off when I head out to the shops, but we can live with that ! Or you can tie me to the bedpost –“

The cheeky smile that accompanies the suggestion brings a little colour back to Henry’s face.

“Too early ?” Randall blinks, full of false modesty. “Oh dear. Seems eighteen years of living on a farm has sort of overwritten my manners !”

“Slip of the tongue forgiven,” Henry smiles. Randall always makes it feel easy.

“Thank goodness ! And if you’re still not convinced, I’ll even allow you to handcuff me. Much rather you do it than anyone else !”

“Randall…!”

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, and gets back to his feet. He gives Henry’s hand a final squeeze before letting it go. “There ! You’re smiling again. Are you ready to go back in ?”

Henry reluctantly follows him up. “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice.”

“Not really,” he says honestly, offering an encouraging smile. “But hey, it’s alright. If there’s grief to deal with afterwards, well… I reckon I deserve a little grief anyway. This time you’re not alone. We’ll face this one together. Yeah ?”

“Yes.” A little feeling is returning to his hands and legs. The knot in his throat has finally undone. “Together it is.”

“I’ll just go back to my breakfast in the meantime !”

“We’re having lunch in an hour,” Henry points out. “Alright, very well. I need to finish this.”

Randall says something encouraging, but the spoon in his mouth makes it difficult to tell what exactly. It doesn’t matter, really – what does is the shine in his eye, and it puts Henry at ease. He’s nearly halfway down the corridor when he remembers the teapot, and spins on his heels to go back for it, but Randall’s in the doorway, holding it out on a quaint little tray. He pushes it into his hands and shoos him away.

“Taken care of !” he grins, giving him a little shove in the right direction. Years of practice save Henry from stumbling.

**[CLICK]**

IN : Ah ! Mister Ledore, you’re back.

HL : Yes. Awfully sorry for the delay. Some things needed sorting out. I think we’re reaching the end of our meeting again.

IN : _(I give my watch a glance)_ Almost lunchtime. I wasn’t expecting to take up so much of your morning, sir. Just one last thing, before we end the interview…

HL : Of course.

IN : I couldn’t help but notice the robot.

HL : The–

IN : Yes, the robot; you must have misremembered, it isn’t in your office after all. It’s sitting right over there on the bookshelf. I wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t so isolated from the rest of the decoration. On display, really.

HL : I… I see it. Just a mistake on my part.

IN : Hm. Yes, but it’s actually quite useful for my final point. You said, earlier on, that the robot remained in your office because it gave you hope when you ran out. Why has it moved to your living room, then ? Have you definitively given up ?

HL : It’s been eighteen years. I would never give up on the idea that the man I’m looking for is somewhere, but the robot has become more of a… a safekeep.

IN : That does sort of imply that you’ve given up, hasn’t it ? Committing that special gift to _memory._ Thing is, the first time that we met, you said two things that stuck with me particularly. The first was when you referred to Monte D’Or as a beacon. More specifically, if you’ll allow me to quote you, you said the following words : “It [Monte D’Or] was created as a beacon.” And, as we’ve clarified today, the town’s creation was born from the search for Mister Ascot. Correct ?

HL : …

IN : Although you haven’t outright said it, it’s rather easy to tell that this beacon in question was supposed to bring Mister Ascot home. It’s something that you haven’t given up on, not in the slightest, and you went as far as to potentially endanger dozens of tourists to avoid the beacon from flickering even for a few days. I don’t think we can call that putting the thought of him away at the back of your mind.

HL : _(quietly)_ I suppose not.

IN : Now, the second sentence you spoke that I underlined a few times was this one : “I’ve found what I’m looking for.” I don’t think it takes a lot of extrapolation to couple that with the fact you refused to give me Randall Ascot’s name for no good reason, nor reveal the Masked Gentleman's identity, and deduce some interesting things.

HL : I’m going to ask you to stop right there.

_Mister Ledore looks more serious now than he has at any point of our meetings so far._

IN : I beg your pardon ?

HL : I need you to stop right there, Mister Dove. I know I have every right to stop answering your questions, or escort you out of my home. This truly isn’t something I want to do, firstly because you would interpret that as an answer of its own, and second because it would constitute an easy way out.

IN : What you’re telling me is that you’re not going to answer any claims I make from here on.

HL : I’m not. But I’d like to make a few claims of my own before we go our separate ways. I don’t know what your background is, only what you told me in your letter, which was very little. I do know that you attended one of the most prestigious universities in Great Britain, which is a feat in itself.

IN : Mister Ledore, I’m really not seeing your point.

HL : My point is that you know where to find a story and you know how to extract it. And there is a story here, or you wouldn’t be sitting on my sofa, but it really isn’t worth all that much. There’s nothing here that’s political, or ground-breaking, or would expose anything of importance. What there is, however, is my home. It didn’t build itself. It wasn’t easy. It was back-breaking work, day in and day out, tiring and hopeless and sometimes, often, miserable. Everything you see here took years to make, from nothing. You wanted to look into my past; the truth is there’s nothing to tell, because I had very little. Not much had value in my eyes, other than the bonds I formed with the people around me. Now that I have something, and people I care about immensely, I’m perhaps a little too protective. Call me cautious. I’m not used to having much to my name, and frankly, I haven’t changed; all the riches in Monte D’Or don’t matter even a little as much as my family does. I’m sure you have someone you care about that way.

IN : …yes. Yes, I do.

HL : Then you know, surely, how far you would go for them, and how painful their disappearance would be. You might go as far as to turn your grief into anger and rage, and bring havoc upon the people who’ve wronged you; that’s what the Masked Gentleman did, anyway, until he realised all was not lost. The whole time he was waiting for someone to stop him and tell him : there’s a better way. There’s hope. I don’t want to end up in that position, Mister Dove. I’ve once lost someone so dear to me that I thought I might die from it. I couldn’t possibly go through that again. That is all.

IN : I… Jesus Christ. _(Muffled sigh – my head is in my hands.)_ Sorry. I understand.

HL : I’m very glad. The story is right there, and you’ve done incredibly impressive work with your research. I would never take that away from you. But these things, I had to say them.

IN : Mister Ledore, I’m wondering if you’d go off the record for me. Just to check- I just need to know. Would you ? I’ll leave you alone afterwards. I swear.

HL : _(Nodding)_ Of course.

**_NOTE : FOLLOWING THREE PAGES MISSING FROM THE FILE._ **

_The recording goes on for five minutes and forty-seven seconds before cutting. Possibly due to damaging of the tapes, this time-lapse is fully silent other than the occasional crackle._

**[RECORDING #02 ENDS]**

From : CHIEF EDITOR <humpert.merry@thetelegraph.co.uk>

To : CLIVE DOVE <clive.dove@thetelegraph.co.uk>

Subject : MISSING PAGES

Dove, just read through the Ledore Interview after Stacey finished formatting it. She threw your post-it notes in there too, said she didn’t know if you planned on keeping them in. This stuff is pretty good, but there are THREE pages missing off the end !!! Where the hell are they ?? Without the ending you’ve hardly got a story !

Get back to Stacey ASAP about the notes and FIND THOSE PAGES !

PS. You better not be going soft like you did with the sodding Nina kidnapping. If you can’t break a story you might want to look into another line of work, mate.

H. MERRY, Daily Telegraph, Chief Editor

FROM : CLIVE DOVE <clive.dove@thetelegraph.co.uk>

TO : STACEY SMITH, PRINTING <smith.stacey@thetelegraph.co.uk>

Subject : Notes + that dickhead Humpey

Hi Stacey,

Got word about the notes. I would appreciate if they were kept in, actually. Thanks for not chucking them in the bin. I know this whole file’s a bit messy, but the street interviews are meant to be printed between the transcripts for recordings 1 and 2.

If H. gives you grief over the missing pages tell him to sod off. I don’t have them, or I would have given them to you ! The numbers at the bottom of the pages were a mistake (which is why they were written in pencil, mind you, but the old fuck can’t put two and two together like he used to). The recordings were damaged, and I refuse to work from memory on this one. That’s final. I won’t let him drive me into the ground like this. If he asks for the tapes, they’re gone.

Thanks for your help.

Clive x


End file.
